


[cut you up]

by ephemerall



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, M/M, Prostitution, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-01
Updated: 2010-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemerall/pseuds/ephemerall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered what the wayward kids taught him, when he was sixteen and naïve, when he was old enough to feel guilty, even to puke when it was over, but knew he was doing <i>something</i> to make it by.</p><p>He wanted this.  He could work for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[cut you up]

**Author's Note:**

> mentions of rape, nothing explicit in that part.

After Sam graduated high school, they packed up and went to Nebraska to chase something big and mean. Later, Sam remembered the fur and claws, teeth and snarling, but not much after that because Dean told him he's lucky to be alive. After that, he got the acceptance letter for Stanford in one of their PO Boxes, and Dad wasn't alive to see it.

It was cold and the wind spidered down their necks, finding a way into their bones when they stood around the burning pyre. Sam wanted to go – away from this, to school – and Dean wouldn't give up on hunting.

They moved to Palo Alto and tried to make it work.

\---

  
Dean made easy money hustling pool; he was good at it like their dad always was. He tended bar on the weekends, worked in a body shop a few days a week patching up cars and shit, hunted on any days he could, and he made enough to get them by. But it still wasn't enough, not really. Yeah, Sam's schooling was paid for because the kid was scary smart, got a full scholarship, but that didn't pay for books and it didn't pay rent. Sam knew they were struggling; they were really struggling, and he couldn't let Dean take the brunt of that weight. Sam was the one who wanted to come here; he was the one who _had_ to go to Stanford, had to go to college and make something out of himself.

When they were hunting, he made the wrong kinds of friends. He met a caliber of people he told himself he didn't ever want to be like, and found out that being like them was the only thing he could do; Dean couldn't do everything, and he had to pull his weight somehow. Course work was brutal, and he class schedule didn't really allow time for even a part time job on campus – all the good work study jobs were taken, and he wasn't going to clean toilets – so he found other ways. He remembered what the wayward kids taught him, when he was sixteen and naïve, when he was old enough to feel guilty, even to puke when it was over, but knew he was doing _something_ to make it by.

He wanted this. He could work for it.

\---

  
The first time he does it, is like the _first_ time all over again. He was twitchy-nervous, unable to keep his eyes focused in any one place. The guy was older, at least forty from the grey that colored his hair at his temples, maybe around their dad's age if he'd still been alive, and he was quiet. He slid money easy-sure into Sam's hand, and let his fingers linger against Sam's palm a little too long.

His hands were soft, then tugged a little too tight in Sam's hair when he slid to his knees, Sam's hands shaking a little as he unbuttoned and slipped the zipper on the guys pants. His cock was long, flushed blood-dark and hard, heavy in Sam's hand. _Come on_, he whispered, urging Sam's head forward. Sam opened his mouth, taking in just the head of his cock, tasting salt-bitter at the slit. He stopped, looked up at the guy. "Condom?"

"I'll give you another hundred if you just shut up and suck me," he said.

It came back easy, remembering how to breathe around a cock down his throat, how to open his throat and swallow around it, how to not gag. Guy's hands didn't seem so soft when they tightened so hard in Sam's hair that his eyes watered; when they tightened and pulled his head forward hard, making the head of the guy's dick bump hard against the back of Sam's throat.

He learned things, from before, about how to do this. He learned to just let them do what they want, don't fight any of it, because that's how you end up with your ass beat in an alleyway. So he let the guy fuck his mouth harder than he was comfortable with, fighting the urge to gag, choking for air, and eyes watering so hard tears leaked from the corners. Sam felt his stomach lurch traitorously and wills himself to just hold it back, let the guy finish, and when he does he came so hard down the back of Sam's throat that Sam wound up swallowing most of it.

He was bent over hands on his knees, spitting what was left of the guy's come out of his mouth and onto the wet, dirty pavement, and realized the knees of his jeans were soaked through and he was shivering and shaking.

"Thanks kid," he said, zipped up, and then was gone.

Sam threw up on the ground before he left, thinking only a few more tricks tonight and he'd have the rent covered.

\---

  
The second time it happened, he felt like a pro. Some guy walked by the building he was leaning against, almost imperceptibly nodded, and Sam followed. That time, Sam let his trick fuck him over the back of an old couch, arching back into it to make it good, get his money's worth. He made all the expected moans, some of them real – maybe one or two – and tuned out the dirty talk, the trick saying yeah, you like that, little slut and the fuck, yeah, take my cock. He came into his own fist, jacking himself hard and impersonal, just a means to an end; trick came hard, thrusting into Sam so hard there would be bruises on his hips from the couch in the morning.

Sam tucked himself in and buttoned up while the trick pulled off the condom and threw it away. He came up behind Sam, stuffed a wad of bills into the front of Sam's pants, and said thanks, baby.

Sam walked back to the apartment. It was three miles and cold out.

He threw the money on the table, a few tricks got him three hundred bucks, and Dean came into the kitchen with his hair sticking up in all directions, wearing his boxers and a tee-shirt.

"Where the hell did you get that?"

It was hard enough to explain it the first time. "Convinced Eddie down at the bar to let me work a couple shifts. Told him I'd take tips only."

Sam shed his jacket, and shirt on the way to the bedroom, Dean close behind him. In the bedroom he toed off his shoes and stripped of his pants, Dean coming to stand close by him. "Sammy, you don't have to. I've got it covered."

"You don't always have to have it covered, Dean," he said, keeping his back to his big brother.

Dean pressed in against Sam's back, hands at Sam's hips, thumbs soothing the dip just at the small of his back. He pressed a kiss to the top knob of Sam's spine. Sam shied away a little, mumbled _dirty_. He glanced at Dean, caught his confused expression.

"All those people smoking," Sam lied. "I smell like it, and you wear as much liquor and beers as you serve. Lemme shower first," Sam said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The water was scalding, burning his skin red, and he tried to wash away the strangers.

\---

  
Dean wanted to celebrate Sam's twenty-first birthday, wanted to make it special. He even opted out of buying the cheap beer, whether or not they actually had the money to waste. He let Dean sit too close on the couch, their knees and thighs touching, drinking can after can of beer.

Sam wanted to get drunk, if he was being honest with himself; he wanted to forget the fact he was a liar, that he was fucking other people behind Dean's back, that he was a dirty whore. He closed his eyes, head spinning a little, and Dean slid languidly into his lap, straddling his thighs. Sam opened his eyes, staring up at Dean with unfocused eyes, and closed them again when Dean slid his hands into Sam's hair.

Dean's mouth always tasted faintly like coffee; even after eight or ten beers Sam can still taste the dark flavor. He forgot about the coffee when Dean's tongue speared past his lips, sliding over the roof of his mouth, and Dean ground down against him, hard cock against hard cock. Sam moaned into his mouth, grabbing Dean's hips and pushing him down harder against his dick.

"Dean…" Sam whispered against his lips, head spinning.

"Come on, Sammy…" he said against his mouth. His hands drifted down to the hem of Sam's shirts, fingers teasing just underneath, brushing against the soft skin of Sam's belly, just above his waistband. Dean popped the button on Sam's jeans, slid the zipper down, sliding his fingers just inside, brushing the top of Sam's pubic hair, just grazing the hard line of his cock.

Sam thrust up. "Dean, please…" He gripped Dean's hips harder, ground up against him. Dean bent forward, attached his lips to Sam's neck, alternately sucking and biting, then soothing the spots with his tongue.

"Want you to fuck me," Dean said, pulling hard at Sam's jeans and boxers, bracing himself on his knees. "Lift up," he said, and Sam complied, letting Dean pull his cock free. It bobbed up, curved and dark against his belly.

Sam breathed hard; he needed to fuck Dean. He needed to be inside his brother as badly as he needed to breathe. "Oh god, Dean…"

"Is that ok?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, god, it's good."

He reached for Dean's jeans, yanked them open and down; he felt like he was going to die when Dean stepped away, relived when he realized he was just taking off his jeans. "Wait," Sam breathed. "Lube."

"I got it," Dean breathed, digging in his jeans pocket. If Sam hadn't been half drunk, he would have asked Dean if he made it a habit of carrying lube in his back pocket. But he _was_ half drunk, horny, and he just really needed to fuck Dean, and he watched with half-lidded eyes as Dean slicked up Sam's cock. Dean looked up, saw Sam watching him, and grinned a little. "Like that, Sammy?"

For a minute, Sam felt like he was going to puke; too many people, nameless faces, saying dirty things to him, but this was Dean. This was his Dean. "Oh god," Sam whined. "Oh god, Dean, please…"

"Shh," Dean whispered, straddling Sam's lap again, pressing his mouth to Sam's once, twice, and Sam gasped when Dean pushed down on his dick, breath catching a little as he eased down. "Fuck, Sammy…"

Sam closed his eyes when Dean pressed his forehead to Sam's, and he breathed Dean's air, feeling Dean's tight heat all around his cock. He gasped audibly when Dean finally sank down all the way, quicker than Sam expected. Dean didn't even take a minute to adjust, just started lifting up, and sliding back down, already setting a rhythm.

"Oh fuck, Dean…" Sam whispered, head tipped back, eyes closed. It was the best feeling in the world, Dean screwing down on his cock. Dean's rhythm was tortuously slow at first, and then it was brutal, and Sam realized he was slamming up while Dean was slamming down. "Oh god, Dean," Sam half-sobbed, "I can't… I can't…" His grip around Dean's waist tightened so much, his grip so hard, he knew Dean would have bruises in the shapes of his fingers, and he came – he came so hard, feeling like it was never going to end. It felt like dying – it felt like he was alive.

Dean fisted his own cock and Sam twined his fingers with his brothers, jacking him rough and fast, and Dean followed suit, coming over his and Sam's fingers and on Sam's shirt. Neither of them bothered to wipe up, Dean just leaned forward against Sam, pressing his face into Sam's neck.

"Love you," Sam whispered, "Love you so much." And it sounded broken.

\---

  
There was one time it just goes wrong; it goes so horribly wrong Sam feels like he's dying from the inside out. That's when Dean found out. He came home bleeding, face bruised, lips split; his hands shook when he stumbled into the bedroom and tried to get out of his dirty clothes. Dean must've heard him come in.

"Sammy?" He could hear Dean in the doorway, but when Sam had come in he'd purposely left the light off. Sam didn't answer, and not for lack of trying, he just couldn't make his voice work. And Dean turned on the light. "Jesus Christ," Dean said quietly coming quickly to Sam. "The fuck happened, Sammy?" He sounded scared, and it wasn't something Sam heard from Dean often, so he figured he must look pretty bad. He remembered he was bleeding – guy had a fucking knife and stuck him good – and remembered his whole body hurt. His whole body started to tremble and Dean took a step forward, reaching out to help him and Sam stumbled back away, too quick to keep his balance.

He figured, later, he must have still been in shock. He fell back against the wall, making pain spike up his side, his ribs, through his neck and head until he felt the world tilt under him. "Don't touch me," he gasped, bending over and throwing up blood and bile on the floor.

"Sam. Sam. Sammy…" Dean's voice was soft and hypnotic and Sam sobbed.

"I said no," was all he said and Dean understood.

Dean froze next to him. "It was a trick? It was a fucking _trick_, Sam?!"

Sam threw up again at Dean's feet.

\---

  
Dean was too silent for almost a week, barely touching Sam, barely looking at him. Sam was starting to feel like the whore he was; he was starting to feel dirty, and broken, and used. He laid in bed for a week, missed classes, and only got up to take the hottest showers he could stand, and to go to the bathroom.

Dean came in and stretched out on the bed beside him. "Sammy," he said softly. Sam didn't reply. "Sam, please, you gotta eat something."

"Not hungry," he whispered, curling in tighter on himself. His whole body tensed when Dean pressed in closer, pressed against his back.

"Sam I…" Dean was quiet for a moment. "I'm not mad." Sam breathed slow – one breath, two – and waited. "I was just… I _was_ mad. But I'm not now, okay? Just…Jesus, you came home like that and I…" Dean's breath caught. "I was _scared_."

Sam turned over slowly. His eyes burned and he willed back tears. "Touch me," he said softly. "Oh god, Dean please… just touch me."

Sam rolled onto his side and Dean smoothed his hair, pressed a kiss to his forehead, his mouth. "Shh," Dean whispered, "it's ok."

Sam shifted closer, slid his leg over Dean's. He wanted to do more, wanted to touch and kiss Dean, wanted to do everything with him, but he was tired. God, Sam was so tired. "Never again," Dean whispered. "Never again, okay?"

Sam nodded, pressed himself against Dean, and tucked his head against Dean's chest. It could be alright, like this; it could all be alright.

\---

  
When the apartment goes up in flames, and Dean's almost killed in the fire, Sam said it was time to move on. Dean didn't argue, packed their things when he was out of the hospital, and they left.

They'd find a way to work it out.


End file.
